Misspent Youth

37. A SNOWFLAKE IN HELL

THE SUMMER STORM CRAWLED NORTHWARD across the placid azure sky, following some way behind the morning express train from London to Peterborough. Tim changed for the regional train to Stamford, then caught the bus back to Empingham. Thick black clouds were just beginning to fall over the lip of the southern horizon as the taxi carrying him and the Europol team pulled up in front of the manor; the air was heavy with the smell of ozone.

Lieutenant Krober was in the hallway when Tim walked in. “We didn’t expect you back for a few more days,” he said.

To Tim’s ears the Europol officer sounded strangely guilty. “Yeah, well, London didn’t work for me.”

“I see.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“I am not sure.”

“Not sure? You’re his bodyguard.”

“He has not gone out. He is in the manor. Perhaps working.”

Tim frowned at Krober, who was giving Natalie Cherbun a silent, frantic look. He marched into the living room. Dad wasn’t there, but a navy blue bikini halter was draped over the back of the white leather sofa. Tim stared at it, startled by how familiar it was, one of Stephanie Romane’s swimwear line. The big French doors were open, obviously used that morning. He went out onto the terrace to see if anyone was outside. Behind him he could hear Krober and Cherbun talking in low urgent voices. Nobody was in the garden. The pool was calm and flat, with a single inflatable ball floating in one corner of the deep end.

From somewhere above and behind him came the sound of a girl moaning hoarsely. Tim turned slowly to see that the veranda doors of his father’s bedroom were wide open. He wasn’t conscious of climbing up the iron spiral stairs from the terrace. The next thing he knew he was standing on the veranda while the storm’s precursor breeze stirred the louver blinds along the edge of the broad glass doors. There was another cry from inside the bedroom, sharper this time. A cold dread seeping through Tim’s body produced shivers down his arms and legs as he crept forward to the window frame. His face pressed up against the glass, allowing him to peer through the narrow gap between the blinds.

He was looking directly into Annabelle’s wide-eyed stare, though she seemed unable to see anything through her own rapture. She was kneeling on all fours in the middle of the four poster bed, oiled skin gleaming in the room’s rich lighting. Jeff was positioned behind her, hands gripping her hips, muscles straining as he pulled himself forward, grunting with the effort of penetration. Annabelle’s beautiful features suddenly contorted with a grimace of dirty glee, and she let out a long delighted wail.

The tableau rooted Tim to the spot. All he could do was watch in utter disbelief as his father fucked Annabelle barely three meters in front of him.

They went on and on. He was sure there was never going to be an end to it.

The image blurred. Tim blinked, not understanding what was happening. Then he saw big raindrops were splashing against the glass. The storm had arrived from the south, rolling across the sky to shroud the manor in darkness and thunder. Rain and tears mingled together as they trickled down his cheeks.